Here With Me
by mementom0ri
Summary: John and Sherlock's relationship shortly after The Great Game.
1. Chapter 1

_John. I require your assistance. -SH_

_Will you be taking much longer?-SH_

_John.-SH_

_The flat could be on fire at this moment.-SH_

_JOHN!-SH_

John sighed, exasperated at his flat mate's insistent texts. He'd recently taken a couple more hours at the surgery after Lestrade had cut off Sherlock from cases for a few weeks after Moriarty's trick at the pool. Sherlock's boredom had led to exploding teapots, violent violin plucking, and tense feuds between the two friends. Just recently, John had come home from the surgery to find Sherlock passed out on floor with a syringe a few inches from his limp hand. He had yelled for Ms. Hudson to call an ambulance as he began rapidly pumping Sherlock's chest. By the time the ambulance had arrived, Sherlock's eyes had fluttered open and he was making weak protests as he was carried out of 221b. After Sherlock's discharge from the hospital, Mycroft raided the flat and begged John to not leave the detective's side. However, a week after the incident he was unable to stand anymore of Sherlock's antics and began working late at the surgery again.

Sarah walked into John's office, "You can go home you know. Your shift ended two hours ago." John lifted his head and motioned to the paperwork in front of him. Sarah rolled her eyes and added, "You can't avoid Sherlock forever," and with that she turned around and closed the door. John stared at the closed door with tired eyes, she was right, avoiding Sherlock wouldn't help anything. He ran a hand through his hair and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes before getting up and grabbing his coat.

221B was eerily quiet. There was no violent violin plucking, no exploding teapots, not even the small click-click of Sherlock's fingers hitting the keyboard. As soon as John closed the door he bounded up the stairs and into the living room, his heart beating quickly in his chest. The room was empty, John spun around and burst into Sherlock's room. The room, of course, was a mess. There were books piled haphazardly on shelves and questionable liquid filled containers lining the wall. All sorts of pictures and newspaper clippings littered the floor and on the bed lay heaps of blankets. Amongst the blankets lay Sherlock fully clothed and asleep with a book on his chest. John sighed in relief as he watched the rise and fall of Sherlock's chest, all traces of panic leaving his system. He turned around to leave the room when a soft murmur escaped Sherlock's lips, "John."

"Go back to sleep, Sherlock. I didn't mean to wake you." He whispered in apology.

"I wasn't asleep." Sherlock's eyes fluttered open, his mouth drawn into a thin line.

"Oh. Well, I'll just-" John awkwardly made for the door.

"You're worried. Ever since you found me passed out on the floor last week, you've constantly worried. "No hang on, you've been worried about me ever since...the pool..." Sherlock sat up and cocked his head to the side, "Yet you spend less and less time at the apartment. You have something to tell me."

John ran a hand over his face and sighed, the crease between his eyebrows forming again, "Sherlock, go to bed."

"I can't," he sulked.

"Can't or won't?"

"Can't, John. Don't make me repeat myself." Sherlock pushed past John and made a beeline for the couch. John caught his arm and jerked him around but he stubbornly pulled away and walked out of reach.

"Why can't you?" John crossed his arms and looked at Sherlock expectantly. Sherlock gave and exasperated sigh and collapsed onto the sofa. He drew his hands together and stared at the ceiling in silence. John rolled his eyes and made for the stairs.

"Because you aren't here." Sherlock breathes out the words and they're so quiet that John isn't sure they were even said.


	2. Chapter 2

**YAYY IT'S CHAPTER 2 IN FULL! I realize that I didn't add much but I seriously just wanted to update. Hope you guys don't hate me to much for taking so long. Thanks to everyone for following and favoriting and such :3 I seriously love each and everyone of you. I'd also like to thank Bella (belladarling on here. Check her out ya'll) for putting up with my whining and for helping me with this. She actually wrote the kissing for me since I'm so bad at it! So yah, I love her. Anyway, HERE WE GOOO~.**

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><p>"Come again?" John takes a step forward.<p>

"I don't like repeating myself, John." Sherlock snaps, his hand runs through his curly black hair in frustration. The room goes silent, John stares at Sherlock, the crease between his eyebrows deepening. "You watch me sleep," Sherlock declared , "You watch me sleep because the sound of my breathing helps you sleep. Even if it's in that wretched arm chair, the fact that I'm alive and breathing a few feet away from you gives you peace. When you sleep, I sleep."

"Right," John shifts from one foot to another, "I suppose I couldn't keep that secret for long."

"John, I'm here. Clearly," Sherlock quickly stands up and strides over to John, his hands on either side of John's face, "Alive." John blinks in surprise, Sherlock's touch sends chills through his body and into the pit of his stomach.

"Alive." John breathes, his eyes on Sherlock's lips. His neck hurts from looking up at him,_Damn __him __and __his __height. __Damn __him __and __his __stubborn __arse,damn __him __to __hell __for __his __stupidity.__Damn __him __for ever __waltzing __into __my __damn __life._His thoughts become an incoherent mess the longer he stares at the detective, "Damn you," he murmurs.

His mouth curls into an infuriating grin. "Yes," the taller man agrees. "Damn me. But damn you for being so secretive, and for refusing to pick up on subtle hints the first time I make them, and for being so unsure of yourself that you can't even do what you most want to."

"And what is that?" John is amazed he can form coherent words at this point. The low, rumbling chuckle that escapes Sherlock's throat is something John wishes he could hear almost constantly.

"Oh, John Watson," Sherlock laughs quietly. "You have so much to learn."

He drops his hands from John's face and turns away, making a stride towards the steps. Before John can voice the disapproval that was bubbling its way up his chest, Sherlock was back in front of him, nose just inches from his own.

"Tell me what you want from me, John. Pretend I can't tell just from the way you're standing right now, or the way your thumb is twitching, wrapped in your fist. Tell me." John faught with himself involuntarily for long moments, struggling to find the words.

"John, tell me before I lose interest in this game."

"Kiss me," John blurted out.

"What?" Sherlock's lips curved into a wide smile.

"I don't like repeating myself."  
>And so it was done, the younger man's lips slanting over John's.<p>

A clash of teeth, bumping noses, teeth, lips, and fingers brushing back hair. There was nothing sexual about it. There was longing and adoration and trust and passion behind it, but no demands. John's hands fly to Sherlock's chest as he pulls away, he feels the rapid beat of the detective's heart.

"You are," the words come out as a soft whisper from John's lips, "impossible." Sherlock simply hums and wraps his arm around John, his lips skim over his neck, hair, nose, eyes. With demanding force he pushed John onto the couch and continued the rain of kisses. "Sherlock," John wriggles under the taller man's grasp.

"Shut up, John.," a low rumble escapes past Sherlock's lips as he leaned in to kiss the ex-army doctor. Their lips met again, more forceful and more intense, unbelievably, than the first one.

"I can't do this," John pushes his hands against Sherlock's chest, "I can't."

"Can't do what exactly? The kissing? My apologizes, I got a bit carried away." Sherlock removes himself from the couch and stands awkwardly away from John. He looks hurt but only for a second as he regains his stony composure.

"No, I can't," John sighed, "I can't do any of this, the kissing, the hugging."

"You can't love me." Sherlock nods.

John shakes his head and goes to Sherlock, "I don't want to love someone that I could easily lose. I don't want to love someone who'd slip from my grasp in mere seconds. I've handled too much loss in my life."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Sherlock steps away and walks to the window.

"Don't be daft, Sherlock! Pulling your seemingly lifeless body out of the pool that night killed me. I've had nightmares ever since and I just stopped sleeping. The way you carelessly put yourself in harms way to solve a case, to catch a fucking criminal. Is it really worth your life?"

"It's my job." Sherlock utters coldly.

"For god's sake, Sherlock! You're stupid and selfish._I'm __Sherlock __Holmes __and __no __one __can __compete __with __my __massive __intellect __and __my __stupidity! _And the cocaine, Sherlock? There I am, pumping away at your chest once again because of your stupidity and I can't do it. I can't lose you and I can't love you." John's hands are clenched tight, his whole body is tensed.

"Are you quite finished?" Sherlock continues to gaze out the window.

"No," John strides over to Sherlock and kisses him full on the mouth, his hands reaching up to intertwine in the detective's curls. He pulls away, his hands fall back to his sides in fists again. "I'm need some air," and with that John grabbed his coat and walked down the stairs of 221B out into the cold London night.


	3. Chapter 3

**Hullo. FINALLY AN UPDATE. Thank you to everyone for the favorites and the reviews. It means a lot. I hope you like this chapter.**

**I guess um, I don't own BBC Sherlock.**

**I'm supposed to say that, right? Anyway, here it is!**

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><p>The streets of London were bustling along as John observed from the grimy pub window. After storming out of 221b, he'd taken the familiar route to the public pub which was a refuge to him whenever Sherlock decided to drive him up a wall. A sense of anxiety came over him as his mind began to replay the scene that had just occurred between Sherlock and him. He loved Sherlock, there was no doubt in John's mind about that. However, Sherlock was careless, stupid, stubborn and was probably the cause of John's patches of grey hair.<p>

_He's insufferable, stupid, stupid, so stupid, not to mention selfish and he's like a child. He's impossible. He's wonderfu-No! John. You can't love him, he's impossible to love. He's incapable of feelings anyway. He's a sociopath. He's bloody Sherlock Holmes and you can't love hi-_

"Doctor Watson?" a soft female voice calls him back from his reverie, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be a bother."

"Sorry, no no it's fine," John looks up to see a young woman around her thirties with a small round face and soft sandy brown hair, "I'm sorry, do I know you?"

"I'm Mary, Mary Morstan," She beams down at him, "You and your colleague helped me a few months back..."

"Oh! Mary, of course I remember you. Sit down, sit down," Johns waves to the empty chair across from him,this was just the distraction he needed "Can I get you a drink?"

"No, no. I'm just waiting for a friend. I saw you sitting here alone and decided to say hello." Mary sits down, carefully readjusting her skirt.

"How have you been?" John leans in, thoughts of Sherlock no longer in his brain.  
>"Oh, I've just been splendid. How's the surgery?"<p>

"Quite good, actually. Yeah..." John takes a sip of his drink.

"How's the wonderful Sherlock Holmes? You two live together, don't you?" Mary's hands curls under her chin as she leans in closer.

"Oh, Sherlock...fine. Great," John takes another sip of his drink to hide his annoyance, "Keeping him out of trouble and such."

"It's so wonderful that you take care of him, John. That man doesn't seem to have many friends." Mary flashes a smile at him.

"Right," John's fingers began to tap on the table, his thoughts wandering back to Sherlock. Mad, impossible, Sherlock Holmes. It was hard to believe that a grown man could be so childish yet so amazingly brilliant. A smile crept onto his face as he thought of his flatmate, he quickly snapped out of it at Mary's worried voice.

"John? You alright?" She peers at him, concern in her eyes.

"Yes, sorry. Just a bit tired." John gave her a reassuring smile. Mary carried on the conversation a bit longer, with John adding in occasional 'hm' and laughing at the appropriate spots. Her hands never stay still as she talks about an incident at her job in a very animated fashion. John tries to like Mary, she's pretty and sweet. _I__bet__she__doesn't__conduct__hazardous__experiments__on__the__kitchen__table,_John thinks as Mary begins talking about her friend from Sussex. He imagines living with Mary on a lovely estate, their children causing havoc throughout the house and running to him after a long day at the surgery. It's exactly what his therapist prescribed, a normal civilian life. His thoughts then take him back to 221b, a life with Sherlock Holmes. Chasing criminals through the dark alley's of London, wild experiments in the bathtub, crap telly, just John and Sherlock, _never __a __dull __moment._

"It really was nice talking to you, John. Here," Mary was handing him a folded piece of paper as she rose from her seat, "My friends are here."

John grabbed the paper and nodded, "Goodbye." Mary waved as she headed towards a group of young women by the door. He watched Mary for a few more seconds as she greeted her friends before he got up and walked out the door.

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><p>Sherlock watches John from the window as he strides away from 221b. The detective's fingers hover over his lips as the kiss replays in his head. <em>Foolish.<em>Sherlock scoffs, his head pounding from the lack of sleep. Everything was too complicated and emotional and foolish. He was foolish for thinking that John could love him-the cold, apparently emotionless, sociopath. Moving away from the window, Sherlock goes to the couch where he collapses with a sigh. Fingers pinch the bridge of his nose, as he tries to block out every thought that's weighing down on his brain. He's..._Angry_, Sherlock decides, _Possibly __frustrated, _he muses. _It __doesn't __matter __because __John __will __leave.__They __always __leave._ Sherlock groans and chunks a sofa cushion at the wall. _That __felt __good._He sits up and cocks his head to the side,his mind reeling, _The __act __of __throwing __the __cushion __relieved __some __of __my __frustration. __Interesting._He grabs an empty glass that is sitting on the coffee table and throws it at the wall where it shatters to pieces. Nothing in 221b is safe as Sherlock finds more items to throw. Sherlock yells abuse at the wall as cups, books, cushions, experiments and other objects go flying to and fro. He doesn't know how long he's been raging through the flat but he's now kneeling on a pile of broken glass. The sharp fragments dig deep into his hands and knees, granting clarity from the emotional haze wrapping around his brain. There's something wet on his face, Sherlock reaches up to wipe away at it. _Tears, _He chuckles, _pedestrian._ His fingers grip at his hair as he tries to regain some kind of composure, _Stop __it.__Stop __it __right __now, __Sherlock.__You're __emotional __and __you __look __completely __mad._ He slowly stands up and surveys the flat. He's too exhausted to care that the experiment he had been working on for months is now scattered all over the floor, or the fact that John's favorite teapot lays broken under the kitchen table, he doesn't even care that his phone is broken beyond repair from the numerous throws it endured. The coffee table is tipped on its side, John's laptop seems to have survived Sherlock's path of destruction. He groans and drags himself up the stairs towards John's bedroom. He doesn't bother to change or wash is bloody hands as he collapses onto the bed. The smell of John engulfing him as he shuts his eyes in hopes of sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

**I do apologize for not updating in so long. I also want to apologize for how short this chapter is. It's all I have right now but I promise to update within the week...well maybe I shouldn't make promises like that. **

**Sherlock is not mine, obviously. **

**Here you go.**

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><p>After leaving the pub, John marched over to the flat to make amends with Sherlock and snog him senseless. However, his uncertainty held him back as he looked up at the lifeless windows of 221b. He'd been standing outside for a good half hour, hesitant to even walk up to the door. The biting cold and the quickly approaching storm clouds left John with no choice but to enter the building. Mrs. Hudson appeared as soon as he closed the door behind him.<p>

"Oh, John. Thank heavens you're here. Poor Sherlock's been raging around in the apartment doing god knows what! All I heard was things falling and glass smashing, I didn't want to go up there when he was in such a state. He was cursing, John! Actually yelling abuse at nothing but air," Her hands fidgeted as she gave a wary glance up the stairs, "I couldn't sleep until you got home and sorted the poor fellow out."

"I'm sorry he kept you up, Mrs. Hudson." John was already halfway up the stairs.

"Oh no trouble, John. I know he's difficult, dear but he needs you," Mrs. Hudson gave him a small smile, "Goodnight. I hope things turn out alright between you two." She retreated quietly to her flat.

John sprinted up the rest of the steps and threw the door open, an exasperated groan escaped past his lips as he took in the disorder of the flat. He quickly ran over to his laptop and checked it for any damage, it seemed to have survived. There was glass everywhere and no books remained on the numerous shelves that lined the wall. It was a complete disaster with the culprit nowhere in sight. A lump rose in his throat as his thoughts skimmed through the kind of state Sherlock could be in right now. Without a second thought he threw open the door to Sherlock's room to find it completely empty. Panic began to settle itself in John's stomach as he ran to the restroom in search of the consulting detective. Empty. _Text Mycroft. Where's my cell?_ John's hands patted his pockets but came up empty. _It's in my room._ He bounded up the stairs, not wanting to waste anytime, and threw open the door. What he saw relieved him but only for a second as a bolt of fear struck him at the sight of blood.

"Sherlock!" John shook him awake, "How'd you get hurt? Where'd this blood come from?" He scanned Sherlock's body and gently examined his hands. There were small cuts all across the palm of Sherlock's hands, they weren't too deep but still required attention. "How did you do this?"

"John," Sherlock looked up at him with exhaustion in his eyes, "Minor injury brought on by emotional instability. Nothing I can't handle."

"Shh. I'll patch you up in a sec. None of these look too deep so we won't need to go to the A&E," John reassured him, guilt burrowing deep in his chest.

"I don't need your assistance, John." Sherlock seems to be fully awake, he pushes past him and heads downstairs to the bathroom. John follows him, the guilt growing into an aching pain in his chest.

"Sherlock-," John starts as he leans on the door frame of the bathroom, watching him clean the cuts.

"What, John?" Sherlock snaps at him, he reaches for the medical kit under the sink.

"We should...talk." John shrugs.

"What about?" Sherlock roughly applies hydrogen peroxide to his hands, he winces at the sting of the chemical. John sighs and steps in, he gently wraps up Sherlock's hands in gauze. Soon he finishes with the other hand but doesn't let it go.

"Look at me, Sherlock. Really look at me," John reaches up and tilts Sherlock's chin down.

"You reek of smoke and alcohol and perfume. Mary Morstan's perfume, you were with her but not for long. She had other affairs but has every intention of seeing you again. Whether or not you have the same intention is unclear, although that piece of paper with her number on it gives me an idea," Sherlock begins to pull away, but John won't let him.

"What else, Sherlock?" John's heart stammers in reaction to Sherlock's icy eyes glaring him down. He snatches his hands away and heads to his room, slamming the door behind him.

"Sherlock!" John pounds on the door, "Please just, let's talk."

"John, I'm tired and I would like to get some rest." Sherlock's voice is cold as he prepares for bed on the other side of the door.

"Sherlock..." John groans, "Can we be mature about this?"

"Maybe tomorrow." Sherlock sniffs as he turns off the light and crawls into bed. John buries his face into his hands, exhaustion etched on every line of his face.

"Goodnight then."

No response.

John takes one glance at the ruined flat before climbing up the stairs into bed.


	5. Chapter 5

John hardly slept that night. He tossed and turned until he finally gave up on all hopes of sleep and padded down stairs to the mess of a sitting room. He wandered over to the kitchen and grabbed the broom and dustpan and got to work. He worked through the night, picking up glass and replacing the books back to their rightful place. He finished at around 5 a.m. according to the time on the microwave. He was thankful for the exhaustion that seeped into his bones once he finished and decided the stairs where too much of a hassle to climb at the moment. Instead, he collapsed on the couch and sleep took him in minutes.

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><p>John woke to the sound of the telly. He groaned and kept his eyes shut refusing to wake up, he was much too tired. His back and shoulder ached from the hours on the sofa, he stretched and felt the satisfying pop of joints and limbs. With exaggerated slowness he opened his eyes and yelped at the consulting detective flooding his visual field, "Sherlock!"<p>

"John."

"What are you doing?"

"Analyzing."

"Ok, well. Do you mind?"

Sherlock took one last searching look at John before getting up from the coffee table and disappearing into the kitchen. John sighed and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, yawning loudly and stretching. Sherlock returned from the kitchen with tea, "You cleaned." He handed John the cup and he took it gratefully.

"Excellent deduction. You should really look into being a detective." John snapped. A look of hurt passed momentarily over Sherlock's face before he regained his composure. John caught the fleeting emotion, "Sorry, that was mean."

Sherlock shrugged and perched himself on the arm chair, his still bandaged hands under his chin. John wanted so say something, anything but his mouth just opened and closed like a fish. He suddenly remembered his life outside of Sherlock and glanced at his watch, "Shit. I'm late."

"For what?"

"Work, Sherlock." John sighed as he walked into the bathroom.

"You can't go to work," Sherlock's face crumpled into confusion, "We have to talk, you said so yourself."

"You can't be serious," John opened the bathroom door with nothing but his boxers on, "Sherlock, I wanted to talk last night, but now, I'm late to work." He made to shut the door but Sherlock stopped him, "Sher-"

"John, you're much to tired to properly function at the surgery today," He forced the door opened and let himself in and quickly locked the door.

"Sherlock, get out or let me out."

"No."

"For Christ's sake, I'm gonna be later than I already am!"

"It's okay, I already called in for you."

"Sherlock you let me out of this bloody restroom or so help me."

"No."

"I will forcefully remove you," John threatened, he stepped forward with a menacing expression on his face, muscles tensed.

"John, your attempts to scare me are adorable," Sherlock smirks as his gaze lingers on John's biceps, "Now take a seat and we'll talk."

John lunged, his fist made satisfying contact with Sherlock's cheekbone wiping the smirk off of the taller man's face. He collapsed unceremoniously to the floor clutching his face but recovered quickly lunging at John and grabbing him around the waist ,stopping the shorter man from reaching the door, although he had managed to unlock it. The two collapsed on the bathroom rug in a tangle of limbs and yelps.

"Get off 'er me, you git."

"John, really this is completely unnecessary."

"You're a complete bastard." They rolled around on the floor, bumping into the sink causing the ceramic glass dispenser to fall and shatter.

Sherlock finally managed to take control and pin John down, he sat triumphantly on the smaller man's chest, his hands pinning down the other man's arms.

"Gotcha."

The bathroom door flew open, both men turned their head toward the door as their landlady stood there in shock, "Oh dear. I'm so sorry. I heard yelling and I thought there was figh-Sherlock, what in heaven happened to your fac-MY SOAP DISPENSER."

"Apologies, Ms. Hudson. You can add it to the rent for this month. John and I were just having a row, " Sherlock stated.

"I want this cleaned up and I want you two to stop fighting like school boys. You're both grown men for Christ's sake. I do not want to hear anymore obscenities coming from up here, do I make myself clear?"

Both men nodded solemnly, Ms. Hudson raised her eyebrow, "Yes, Ms. Hudson," they chime together like schoolboys.

She nods her approval, " Sherlock please get off of John, and John please take care of the swelling on Sherlock's face." Sherlock blinked, still tightly holding onto John, "Now, Sherlock!"

Sherlock sighed and released John.

"Now, I'm going to come back up here in an hour and this mess better be cleaned up." She throws a frustrated glance at Sherlock and hurries out of the flat.

"John."

"Just, shut up. Shut up, Sherlock." He knelt down and began picking up the shards of ceramic and threw them into the bin. He mopped up the soap and fixed the bathroom mat. Satisfied with his work he pulled the first aid kit out of the medicine cabinet and called Sherlock over. He hadn't spoken since John had told him to shut up. Sherlock sat on the toilet lid as John knelt infront of him, his hand gently resting on the other man's knee. The doctor got to work on his patient, cleaning the cut his ring had made on that smooth creamy skin and placing a plaster on it. He disappeared for a second and returned with a bag of frozen peas, "Should help with the swelling."

Sherlock placed it gingerly on his face, "Thank you."

John stood in front of Sherlock for a few moments, the detective gazed up at him from the toilet seat. He looked pathetic. With deliberate slowness the doctor knelt down in front of Sherlock and took the peas from him, setting them on the counter. He leaned forward and pressed a tender kiss on Sherlock's wound and then pressed himself into the crook between Sherlock's collarbone and neck, his armed snaked around his waist. "I'm sorry," He sobbed. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's bare back and clung tight.

They sat there for a while, Sherlock running his hand up and down John's back and murmuring into his ear, "It's okay."


End file.
